


Holding you up to the sun

by actonbell



Series: Avengers, Assembled [8]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Belated Steve Birthday fic, Brooklyn Boys, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Fisting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rimming, Steve Rogers's Birthday, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 09:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actonbell/pseuds/actonbell
Summary: "Didn't you ever think about -- ""Putting the fist of HYDRA up Captain America's ass? No, I can honestly say I never thought -- ""Not that, Jesus Christ....Didn't you ever -- you know, try jerking yourself off with it? Fingering yoursel....?""Maybe, once or twice!" Bucky snapped, exasperated. "Sure! Like I told you, it's cold, it'smetal,I havebad memoriesof strangling people with it. Kind of kills the mood." His smile was sharp and ugly.Steve reached out with his left hand and traced the raised seam again, so gently he could barely feel the brutal join between flesh and metal. "Let's make some good ones, then. Please."Bucky shut his eyes tight and shook his head. "You're fucking corny, Rogers. You know that? You were corny in 1933and1943 and you're corny now.""That doesn't sound like a no," Steve said, hope springing up inside despite him fighting it, something painful."No, it's not a no. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. When have I ever said no to you?""You told me not to go to war," Steve said.





	Holding you up to the sun

**Author's Note:**

> //comes in ~~fifteen minutes~~ four days late with Happy Birthday Steve metal arm fisting fic and Starbucks

_They tried to attack you_  
_They tried too late_  
_We’re waiting on the storm to hide the wake_  
_Bringing you up to the surface_  
_Dragging you up to the shore_  
_Holding you up to the sun like "Is this yours?"_  
_It’s yours_

\- Doomtree, ["Heavy Rescue"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DC3LH-mkM-4)

 

Bucky came, quiet except for the way his breath sped up and became panting in time with how he was pushing deep into Steve, a hint of a groan behind each one, eyes locked on Steve's. Steve came too because Bucky, propped on his metal hand, was roughly stroking Steve's cock in that same rhythm with his other hand, Steve's legs hauled over Bucky's shoulders and Bucky's face close to his, his eyes wide open like he couldn't bear to miss a minute. Steve tried to keep his eyes open too, but as usual when he came, his eyes clamped shut and his head went back, mouth going wide, he could never control himself -- "It's sexy as fucking hell," Bucky told him, "the way you just _lose_ it." It always took a little while for Steve to come back down into his body, recover from the emotional release that he sometimes thought was almost better than the main event. Later he thought that was why he answered honestly when Bucky, who'd stopped moving but was still _in_ Steve, slightly pushing back and forth just to be a smartass, said "What else you want, birthday boy?" in a tone that was a teasing taunt but eager and sweet underneath. Steve wasn't all the way back yet, so he'd told the truth.

Steve had always been shy and halting when he tried to say what he wanted, in bed; Bucky loved it, and often teased him by never guessing or letting Steve be vague, always making him spell it out no matter how long it took. So Steve, drifting and dreamy, said "Well I _really_ wanted -- " and then his brain caught up with his mouth and he stopped short, uneasily shifting his legs back and forth, not quite signalling that he wanted to take them down. But Bucky had him pinned, and, breathing hard, his eyes trained on Steve like if he blinked Steve'd disappear, said "What? What was that?" Steve rolled his eyes and clamped his jaw shut, pressing his lips together.

" -- Unh unh, you don't say, you don't get. You know that."

"Asshole," Steve muttered, and Bucky laughed -- Steve's favourite sound, here in the future -- and pulled out of Steve (he was still hard, they both were), letting Steve's feet gently drop to the bed. He collapsed considerately to the side, now resting on his left elbow, but kept looking intently into Steve's face. Steve took a deep breath and tried to figure out to say what he wanted without sounding like a bad porno or sex manual. "Come on, pal," Bucky said, "we haven't got all day -- oh, _wait...."_ He slid one hand up Steve's stomach, loosely cupped his fingers around one pectoral, scratching lightly over the nipple with two or three nails, trailed his fingers up Steve's throat to his jaw, ran his thumb along Steve's bottom lip like he could coax out the words.

Steve shut his eyes a second, then turned his head on the pillow and looked at Bucky's other hand, the plates gleaming softly in the late morning light. He reached up with his right hand and threaded their fingers together, hard, then drew Bucky's hand up to his mouth and put the first finger between his lips, closing his eyes again at the taste of the metal. Bucky was motionless. Steve had tried his best to not react to the metal arm at first, not to touch it or the flesh shoulder it was fused into without letting Bucky see he was going to do it, keeping it casual. Later he had gone further, very slowly, building up to kissing the shoulder, then the palm and fingers, but Bucky had always shied away from using that hand to touch Steve during sex. He used it to prop himself up or support Steve's weight, but he hadn't ever used it to cover Steve's mouth or eyes or hold him down or jerk him off with it the way Steve had fantasized about for....so long, now. Even now, on bad days, he would jam the fist into his pants or jacket pocket and act as if it really were an old-time prosthetic, something that couldn't move. Steve thought that was probably no good on a number of levels, but since there were no tendons to wither or muscles to waste, it was hard for him to make a case. He put the metal knuckles against his cheek, hearing Bucky's sharp inhale at that, and said, finally looking back up, "I want....I want you to fuck me with your hand. I want you to jack me off, and then -- " Bucky's eyes got wider but he didn't draw back -- "then fuck me with it, with your fingers. Your, your fist." Now it was finally out in the open, all of it, and he relaxed, sank back on the bed and waited, wondering if Bucky would leave the room or the building when he got up.

Bucky stayed still as still, his hand twined with Steve's. He tried for a laugh, but it came out too breathless and scratchy, sounding scraped out of his throat. Steve winced. Bucky's face was unreadable, not blank exactly but his personality withdrawn, eyes and mouth still as his body. It only happened when he had been taken by surprise and was trying to evaluate how he felt, what to do, without being vulnerable. Steve had seen the same not-look on Natasha's face -- not often -- and he'd never seen it on Bucky during or before the war. He tried not to hate it as a relic of the Red Room, Department X, whatever the torture squads had wanted to call themselves as they'd tried to rip the humanity out of the people he loved, and warp what they couldn't take away. He watched as Bucky's regular reactions came back, like blood flushing a pale face or someone slowly waking up: first the eyes, then a twist of his mouth, a tiny shift in his forehead muscles and eyebrows. Steve had spent years drawing portraits, but he'd never realized how uncanny it was to see a face guarded that completely.

Bucky snorted. "You don't want so fucking much," he said, and Steve sagged further into the mattress, weak with relief that he wasn't disgusted or insulted or horrified, or anything else that might come in between them.

Bucky slowly unlaced his hand from Steve's, holding it up in the air as if it was a separate object, then rolled off Steve onto his back, putting his metal arm between them, making a point. He held it up again, elbow on the bed and index finger pointing straight up at the ceiling, and said almost wearily, "You want me to _fist_ you. With _this."_ Steve knew the tone, and it always made him automatically defensive; it said without words but eloquently how Bucky felt about Steve's latest dumbass idea and how likely it was to land them in jail or the hospital (in Brooklyn) or get them all blown up (overseas).

"J -- jerk me off first, with it. And then, yeah....uh, fist me. Yes." Steve tried to recover, sound more in control, sure of what he wanted.

The hand had haunted his dreams, his fantasies, for such a long time. First it had been in nightmares, Bucky's fist driving at his temple or angled up to send splinters of nasal bone into his brain, or clenched tight around his throat, slowly and completely cutting off his air no matter how much he struggled and hit down on it. Then one night he'd awakened from a paralyzing dream, where Bucky appeared by the side of his bed in full Winter Soldier dress and reached down to draw back the blankets and took hold of Steve's dick painfully hard. He came before he woke up, like he was a sixteen-year-old kid again in Brooklyn. He hadn't been able to stop remembering it, and finally had roughly stripped himself off in the shower weeks later, one hand braced against the slick wall, the water beating on his back, imagining the different textures between the soft fingerless leather glove and the flat smooth planes of Bucky's metal fingers. After that the hand had always figured in his fantasies, sometimes with fascination, often with shame, always with a terrible kind of longing. He figured the last time Bucky had touched him, dragging him out of the river to life and safety, had been with that hand, even if he'd also almost killed him with it. And now that Bucky was back, really back, he acted as if touching Steve with it would finish the job.

Bucky sighed, and, picking Steve's thoughts out of the air the way he'd been doing ever since they met, said "Jesus, Steve, I almost beat you to death with this thing." He opened and closed his fingers, not quite making a fist, again as if he were operating a machine separate from himself.

Steve reached up and grabbed his hand, his fingertips moving over the deep grooves and odd flat spaces where the fingernails would be. "That's _why,"_ he said, his own voice so low and gritty it hurt his throat. "Not -- I don't want it to be -- _separate_ from us, something between us. I want _us_ to use it. The way we want. You think...." He went silent for a short while, trying to think of how best to say it. "It's part of you. I want to, I want all of it....I want all of you."

Bucky squeezed Steve's hand, with normal strength at first and then increasing the pressure. Steve squeezed back, watching his flesh go white against the metal, feeling the pain start to turn into numbness. Bucky's grip let up abruptly, but Steve held on. "You know a guy ninety years, you'd think he'd run out of surprises," he muttered. " -- It's not exactly fucking _designed_ for that, Steve."

"Neither are -- regular hands," Steve argued, "and people still -- "

"No, you don't fucking get it!" Bucky roughly jerked his hand free. "This is -- it's not a _hand,_ an _arm,_ okay. It's a _weapon._ It's designed to punch through walls and snap necks and -- they had me _test it,_ Steve, over and over, it -- It's not a goddamn sex toy. It's a -- _thing."_

Steve deliberately held his own hand up the way Bucky had, his elbow resting on the mattress, fingers pointing straight up, flexing and straightening them slowly. "So's mine, Buck," he said, keeping his voice steady. "This....isn't metal. But it's the same thing. I was....they made me a weapon." He felt himself laugh, a dry harsh sound. "I thought that was all I ever wanted to be....I didn't know what it was really like.....didn't know they'd done that to you too. Not HYDRA. The Army, the war."

He dared a quick glance at Bucky, who was staring up at the ceiling, but listening. "And I'm sorry. That....I didn't see. What they did to you, to us." There was a long pause.

"I don't think you could have," Bucky said, in a distracted tone, still not facing Steve. "We were too young....it was too much. You don't think about shit like that, in the middle of a fight."

"But I should have. And I'm sorry. -- Please, Buck," Steve said, trying not to sound pushy or desperate. "I want us to do this. Together."

Bucky scrubbed at his face hard with his right hand, then rubbed his temples harder with his thumb and third and fourth fingers.

"It's cold. It's _metal,"_ he started again -- now attacking on practical grounds; Steve remembered this technique too. "It's _not_ like a regular hand -- there's these plates, and joints, and what if God forbid it _tore_ \-- something? You could start bleeding internally, or get an infection, or -- "

"I'm not a regular person either, Buck." Steve took a chance and turned on his right side, drawing close so the arm was between them -- it wasn't really cold. He bent his head and kissed the heavy web of thick white and red scars, ran his lips along the raised seam between metal and skin, then drew his tongue across it, smelling not only the clean sharp tang of it but an underlying scent, bizarrely like ozone and dried blood too, as if muscles and bones deep inside were still stubbornly trying to heal, fighting against the alien machinery riveted and pinned to the living tissue. He pressed his lips against plate after plate, until he was down to the star, repainted now in his own colours; he didn't kiss that but laid his cheek against it, feeling the tiny vibrations of shifting parts far down in mechanisms neither of them would ever see. "Didn't you ever think about -- "

"Putting the fist of HYDRA up Captain America's ass? No, I can honestly say I never thought -- "

"Not that, Jesus Christ." Steve pulled away, propping himself up on his own elbow so he could look down at Bucky's face. Bucky was glaring at him, but his expression was normal, not blank or twisted in pain. "Didn't you ever -- you know, try jerking yourself off with it? Fingering yoursel....?"

"Maybe, once or twice!" Bucky snapped, exasperated. "Sure! Like I told you, it's cold, it's _metal,_ I have _bad memories_ of strangling people with it. Kind of kills the mood." His smile was sharp and ugly.

Steve reached out with his left hand and traced the raised seam again, so gently he could barely feel the brutal join between flesh and metal. "Let's make some good ones, then. Please."

Bucky shut his eyes tight and shook his head. "You're fucking corny, Rogers. You know that? You were corny in 1933 _and_ 1943 and you're corny now."

"That doesn't sound like a no," Steve said, hope springing up inside despite him fighting it, something painful.

"No, it's not a no. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. When have I ever said no to you?"

"You told me not to go to war," Steve said.

Bucky's eyes snapped open and he looked at Steve again, his storm-grey eyes not blank again but unreadable, full of some deep emotion Steve couldn't even begin to guess at. He wondered if he'd gone too far. "Yeah, I did, didn't I," Bucky said, and rolled his whole weight over on Steve, not trying to lessen it with a knee or elbow braced on the mattress the way he always did. Steve felt the bed creak under them, but didn't move. Bucky kissed him breathless, not rough but soft and deep and not letting up, until other men would have been hungry for air. Steve spread his legs, feeling Bucky settle down between them, put his arms around Bucky's waist and slid his palms up until he felt rough scarring and smooth metal under his left hand. Bucky finally drew back at that, shifted to one side and hesitantly ran his left hand through Steve's hair, combing out the strands, not letting the fingerpads touch Steve's scalp. Steve kissed him fiercely, trying to push up against Bucky's unyielding strength, and Bucky's fist tightened in Steve's hair, although he didn't pull, sending the message: _don't move_. Steve lay quiet, feeling it cool against his skin, and Bucky let go, smoothing Steve's hair out again.

He trailed the metal fingers hesitantly down the side of Steve's face, holding his jaw lightly, then sliding his hand until his thumb rested against Steve's lips. Steve licked along the slippery plane where Bucky's thumbprint should have been, the indelible, individual lines telling who he was, who he always would be. Bucky groaned and stroked his thumb back and forth along Steve's lips, then traced them again with his index finger and Steve opened his mouth for it again, sucking hard at the unyielding tip, wondering if Bucky could feel it or only the ghost of a sensation. Bucky looked stricken and moved back, but his hand kept slowly making its way down Steve's jaw, the front of his throat, until it lay just above his collarbone, not circling Steve's neck but close, flat against Steve's chest. His eyes were wide with what looked like fear. Steve reached up and put his own hand on Bucky's, overlaying their thumbs and fingers, not holding on or pushing Bucky's hand away.

Bucky swallowed hard, and Steve reached up to kiss him, cupping his left hand behind Bucky's neck, the tips of his fingers on Bucky's skin, touch gentle as he could make it. He felt Bucky's weight press into him more as Bucky relaxed again, yielding to the kissing and caressing, and Steve moved Bucky's left hand down his body, guiding it over his heart -- he could tell Bucky was worried one of the plates would pinch the skin, but it flowed smooth and cold as silk -- down to his stomach and the faint ripples of skin that were all that was left of the jagged entry wound and surgical incisions and stitches from the multiple gut shots. In a few more years probably nobody would be able to tell where they'd been, not scientists with microscopes, not even the two of them. Bucky flinched, and Steve drew him down deep to his mouth again, soothing Bucky with his lips and tongue while he moved Bucky's hand back and forth, slowly as he could, across the places where he'd been ripped open, mortal wounds now nothing but whole skin, healed muscle and tissue. Never in his whole life had he been as glad that he couldn't really scar. Nothing urgent, just Bucky's metal thumb curving against the bottom edges of Steve's last ribs, metal fingers upcurving a little so cool air stole between them and Steve's skin, metal plates flat against the places Bucky had shot bullets into him. He focused on feeling Bucky's heat between his thighs, body heat ebbing at his side where Bucky's other elbow pressed down next to Steve, Bucky's fingers on his skin warming up not to body temperature but maybe close to it, getting slick with Steve's sweat.

Bucky pulled away, slipping free of Steve's hands, and Steve lay quietly, letting him go. But Bucky propped himself up on his right hand, his left hand sliding down to Steve's hip, and moved down until the side of his face rested barely against the skin of Steve's stomach -- Steve could feel the curve of his cheek, softness of his lips, the hot patch of his breath, and tried not to shiver. His hard cock was pressing right up against the top of Bucky's chest, but they were both ignoring that for now. Bucky turned his face as if he wished he could bury himself in Steve, in the fact of his living body, the absolute proof that Steve was still here, that they _both_ were still here, here and now, that Steve hadn't died before getting that last chip in, that hundreds of thousands of people hadn't been killed, that Bucky hadn't had to report back to Pierce that he had finished his final mission before getting a merciful bullet in the back of his head. At least Steve thought that was what Bucky might be thinking, as he slowly moved his fingers in Bucky's hair and felt his lips on Steve's skin, his tongue moving where there would always be scars, for him, no matter if nobody else could see them, even Steve.

Steve reached down with his right hand and curled his fingers around Bucky's left, then gently dragged it up to his face, his mouth -- Bucky let him, unresisting. He didn't look up but Steve felt his breath change, going tight and shallow, as Steve kissed across the grooved palm _(no life or love lines, not anymore)_ , then the joint and the tip of each finger, carefully, taking his time. Bucky raised his head, his breathing faster, as Steve tenderly moved his lips over the metal, diligent and careful as his mother telling off her rosary. When he was finally done he turned it over and kissed the back, ran his lips across the brutal knuckles, and then laid it against his face, feeling the coolness drain away the heat from his flushed cheek. Bucky was staring at him, mouth a little open, like he was seeing something he knew he shouldn't but couldn't look away from, and Steve was so abruptly reminded of their earliest times together it was like a sucker punch. Bucky looked determined, then, and slid back up Steve's body, both hands cradling his face, and kissed him in that long, lingering way again that felt like being pulled under, all questions and frustrations washed away. Not like drowning at all, but drifting; safe.

Bucky started skating his left hand down Steve's body again, feather-light this time, distracting Steve from it by fucking Steve's mouth with his tongue, slow and hard, as the coolness passed over Steve's shoulder, his chest, down his stomach again, and Steve trembled as Bucky touched his inner thigh, the metal feeling colder closer to the pulse of hot blood in his dick. He tried pushing up against Bucky's hand, but Bucky pressed down and suddenly it was like trying to push up against a wall. Steve laughed in disbelief, and Bucky smirked down at him, with an expression that was pure pre-war James Buchanan Barnes all over again: _I'm gonna do this and you're gonna love it._ Only the shakiness of his breath betrayed the illusion. Bucky shifted so his flesh hand was gripping the back of Steve's neck, his lower leg holding down Steve's thighs below his dick, and finally, delicately, he clasped Steve's dick in his fingers, the metal thumb plate right on the slit in the head. Steve gasped and tried to arch up, let his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, but Bucky had him pinned; he was propping Steve's head up and his arm was a line of steel across Steve's hip, keeping him flat -- Steve's left arm was wrapped around Bucky's waist and his right rested free on the bed, not allowing much purchase. Steve's eyes flew open and he saw Bucky staring at him intently again, like he was silently asking Steve, _stay with me, look at me. See me_ \-- at least that was what Steve thought. So he swallowed hard and tried to keep his eyes locked on Bucky's as Bucky squeezed him gently, the metal warming up quickly, but nowhere near as sensitive as flesh. Bucky must've been compensating for the strength and density of the fingers somehow, and Steve remembered him crossly admitting _Maybe, once or twice,_ and the thought of the Winter Soldier's hand on Bucky's own dick made him gasp.

Bucky leaned close and murmured in Steve's ear, never slowing down or speeding up but starting to squeeze Steve's dick harder, and maybe move his hand up and down a little, not much -- Steve was trying not to squirm -- "Remember all the times we used to do this, Steve?" His voice was low, gravelly, and there was a hint of his old accent -- the terminal r's softening, vowels slurring. Natasha said they brought it out in each other.

"What? Yeah, Buck, yeah, I..." and Bucky was _definitely_ starting to jack him off now, thank God, even if it was too fucking slow. "I remember," Steve said, pulled in all different directions by the memories of those two young boys, so long gone they were other people now, and his fantasies of Bucky's metal hand on him, and what that hand was doing to him right now. Bucky nuzzled behind his ear, then nipped Steve's neck, and Steve jerked in his grip. "Hey."

"How many times you figure we did this, Steve?" Bucky asked, ignoring him and soothing the place he'd bitten with his tongue. "Hunh...." He tightened his hold on Steve's cock, like he thought that would help Steve concentrate or some damn thing. "How many?"

"Jesus, I...." Steve's body was moving involuntarily, out of his control now, his heels digging into the mattress, feet twisting, his right hand steadily tearing at the sheets. Bucky's tongue was hot and slick, the wetness it left behind cooling in contrast, and his lips were soft but Steve could feel the tiny beard bristles he'd missed while shaving scraping at his skin. He was working his metal hand back and forth all right but it was _so_ goddamn slow, not mechanical at all but more regular than his other hand could ever be, the too-deliberate rhythm unvarying, unstoppable. Bucky bit lightly down on Steve's skin again to bring him back and Steve snapped, "Whaddaya want, a fuckin' _number?_ I -- _Christ_ will you -- oh, God -- it was a fucking lot, that make you happy? I don't remember how many goddamn _times,_ all right -- "

Bucky laughed low and wicked right in his ear, the sound blurring out the sense for a moment, "Neither do I, pal," and he sucked hard on the sensitive spot he'd made on Steve's neck as he gripped Steve's cock right below the head and began twisting his wrist, his metal thumb sweeping over the head, all while pulling up, which he'd figured out before Steve's seventeenth birthday was the surefire way to make Steve come so hard he nearly whited out. It was a lock nobody else had ever learned how to pick -- either that, or Bucky had imprinted it into Steve so early he couldn't manage the same effect by himself, with his own hands. Feeling those metal fingers knowing just how to wring the sense out of him, the same as Bucky's human hand, tripped a switch in Steve's head and he came harder than he thought he ever had in his life, his whole body shaking hard, his own voice loud in his ears, not knowing what the fuck he was saying, pure babble. His right hand was clenched on Bucky's wrist, whether to stop it or keep him going, he didn't know. He was breathing harder than the last time they'd sparred and he focused on that, his lungs filling, emptying, the sound gradually growing quieter, steadier, feeling his heartrate slow and the edges of the world come back. Bucky was cleaning them up with a corner of the sheet.

He let go of Bucky and looked up, and Bucky was only waiting for Steve to make eye contact before laughing again, although Steve thought there was something forced about it. Bucky had always loved to tease and joke around in bed, from the very beginning, and they both made fun of their _tragic pasts_ in a way that could make Sam wince (Natasha always laughed), but this felt like Bucky cruelly mocking his own current identity, _or lack thereof,_ as he would say -- not the Winter Soldier, but not the Bucky Steve had known and loved, either; someone new, with some old memories. Steve had to smile unwillingly at seeing Bucky laugh, anyway, the familiar way his eyes almost shut and all those laugh lines appeared.

"Just you wait. Next time I'm sucking you off I'll stop until you sing all the verses to 'Minstrel Boy.' -- And don't tell me you can't remember _those,_ you were belting 'em in the shower yesterday."

"Aw, were you hanging on my dulcet tones?" Bucky let go of the back of Steve's neck and slid his arm under his shoulders instead, moving his legs too, and Steve turned towards Bucky, his knees up and feet tucked in between Bucky's thighs, head resting on Bucky's shoulder. It was a position they were both much too big for now but was one of the first they'd ever held each other in, Bucky trying to keep Steve's head up and his feet warm. It meant _comfort,_ even though the left hand Bucky put on Steve's right shoulder to create a cooon of heat between them was silvered and strange.

"Noise pollution, is what _that_ fucking was."

"You love it," Bucky teased again, but the false note was gone, he sounded more like himself -- the man he was now -- again. "You can't get enough of me."

"Well, you're not full of shit there, imagine that."

Bucky's left hand, warmed from contact with Steve's skin, was making idle, lazy circles on Steve's shoulder, his fingers reaching down and over now and then to fit into the gap behind the bone at the very top -- _acromion,_ Steve thought he remembered from drawing anatomy books -- while his thumb stroked along Steve's clavicle. Around, over and down, slow and hypnotic. Steve didn't lift his head but he felt Bucky turn towards him, press his lips to Steve's forehead, temple, down the side of his face -- not really kisses, more light touches. Steve turned his face up and Bucky pressed their mouths together in the same way, almost as if they were sixteen again. Bucky didn't stop or speed up but kept lightly kissing Steve's lips, the corner of his mouth, the beginning of his cheek. It was guaranteed to drive Steve crazy -- he always liked to throw himself into sex, rough and immediate, feeling the impact as if he were diving into a pool -- and he tried not to shudder as Bucky teased him with his mouth again. "Whaddaya want, Rogers?" Bucky asked, and bit down on his lower lip so gently it didn't even sting.

"You know what," Steve murmured into Bucky's neck, half shy, half petulant. "I told you already."

"Well, tell me again." Bucky lifted his metal hand from Steve's shoulder and ran it a little shakily through Steve's hair, and Steve closed his eyes and felt the cool fingertips brush his scalp, start making soft circles again.

Steve closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You," he said with vehemence. _"All of_ you, it's part of you, so I want it. I want you to -- fist me," and the word came easier now. "Fuck me, with your hand. Your _metal_ hand," he added, to cut off any jokes, and Bucky huffed through his nose like a cat.

"You know, it's incredible," he mused, in a too-light tone that had Steve on guard.

" -- What is?" he said irritably, taking the bait.

"I think you've actually _lost_ brain cells since 1944."

"How would you know?" Steve retorted. "You took all the stupid with you -- " but his voice cracked on the last word and he turned away, mortified at how his feelings had slipped out and maybe ready to ditch the whole damn thing. " -- Hey, no," Bucky protested, and tightened his arm around Steve's back. Steve put both hands on Bucky's shoulders, feeling warm skin under one palm and almost-warm metal under the other, but didn't look up. Bucky gently tugged at his waist, and Steve moved up, both knees on either side of Bucky's hips, sighing as their cocks slid together, a hot core at the center of their embrace. Steve felt the insides of his thighs pressed against the hard muscles of Bucky's, felt the mismatch of Bucky's hands moving up his back, and leaned forward, burying his face in Bucky's neck. He rocked his hips up against Bucky's, hard, and said "I just -- I need you, I need it so much," and Bucky said, his voice vibrating through his own body and skin into Steve's, "I know, I do, okay? I do....I do too. I need you too, Steve." His voice had gone harsh and low and his fingers dug into Steve's skin.

Steve realized Bucky hadn't said no, wasn't going to say no, and felt a rush of anticipation so strong it made his head spin -- then got Bucky back by mouthing along the line between metal and skin, deliberately sloppy and wet. Bucky's breath hissed in his throat and Steve traced the seam again with his tongue, once, twice, again and again, his breathing coming quick over the wetness he'd made. Bucky pressed Steve into him, palms on either side of his spine, his head against Steve's. After a moment he he reached down with his left hand and covered Steve's cock with his palm, not squeezing or stroking it, and Steve groaned.

Bucky said in his ear, "If this idea ends with both of us in an ambulance I reserve the right to say I told you so."

"You always say I-told-you-so. It's your favourite fucking thing to say."

"And you have to do what I say -- _listen_ to me."

"I always do whatever you say. Within reason. When it sounds like a good idea."

"I _mean it,_ Steve, you can't just rush into this -- there has to be a lot of prepa -- "

"Have you done this before," Steve demanded, suddenly curious, "with -- anyone else?"

Bucky sighed. "Yeah. Not with _this"_ \-- he gestured with the metal arm -- "but -- yeah. I did."

"Did they do it to you, too?" Steve wanted to know, but Bucky shook his head.

"You want to yak or you want to get started?" he asked, softening it with, "Later....I'll tell you later, okay? Not now." He put his hand on Steve's neck, thumb brushing back and forth over his jawline, and Steve reached up to hold onto his arm, too tight but neither of them cared. Steve wondered if his face showed what Bucky's did -- opened mouth, eyes dark and hazy, showing need and lust but something else, too, a sort of tender wonder, almost hurt. Then Bucky _grabbed_ at him, there was no other way to put it, crushed Steve up against his chest, fingers digging into his upper arms, possessive and desperate. Steve closed his eyes and opened his mouth to feel Bucky's tongue against his, the kiss rough and fumbling as his embrace -- it felt good but strange. Bucky got off on losing control in the moment, like everyone, sure, but first he liked controlling his own movements enough to drive Steve absolutely out of his mind; he didn't just lose it this way. But before Steve could make sense of the confused thought, Bucky let go, gently pushing him away and down, off his lap, and said "On your front, Steve, come on."

A little piqued at being cut off so soon, Steve obeyed but muttered "Sir, _yes_ sir," and Bucky shoved him further up on the bed, amused. "Don't call me sir, I work for a living," he said -- the old call and response, and Steve groaned.

 _"Never_ quote Phillips in bed again."

"You think nobody else ever said that besides him?" Bucky's voice was in his ear again, low and amused. He was poised over Steve, kneeling by his right side, and Steve shivered at the touch of cool metal trailing down his back, dipping in at his waist and over his ass, finally resting lightly on the back of his upper thigh. "Even you were in basic, what'd they tell you?"

It was another one of their routines, but it Steve took a moment to remember, with Bucky's hand beginning to slip between his legs. "Listen to your sarge."

"Damn straight," Bucky said, and moved down on the bed, parting Steve's thighs with both hands. As he settled down in between them and Steve felt Bucky's breath on his skin, he shut his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. Bucky liked to eat Steve out before they fucked, usually making Steve come at least once and leaving him loose and relaxed, but it wasn't something they had done either before or during the war and Steve could never get used to it no matter how many times it happened, the hot slickness and firm searching muscle, and Bucky's _mouth_ licking and sucking and even kissing, _there._ He moaned in anticipation and Bucky laughed quietly, rubbing Steve's ass and hips and thighs, and the contrast between his hands made Steve twitch. He turned his head to the side and spread his legs wider, offering up his ass. Typically Bucky would have made at least one more smart crack, but now he kept moving his hands over Steve, squeezing his ass hard and then finally spreading his cheeks, and the first lick of his tongue, warm and shocking, sent a current up Steve's spine and he said "oh _fuck"_ louder than he wanted. Bucky kept licking lightly and Steve shoved back against him, demanding more, but he felt Bucky flick his tongue over Steve's hole, once, and go back to lapping and circling. The soft caress of his mouth contrasting with how firmly his hands held Steve open for him made Steve feel lightheaded, and he clawed at the sheets. "Goddammit," he managed, already breathless, "stop _teasing,_ Bucky, please -- "

Bucky, gently inexorable as always, ignored him and kept circling his tongue around and around, listening to Steve curse and beg, occasionally kissing the crease between Steve's ass and thigh or slipping one hand lower to brush against his balls, all of his touches light and quick, maddening. Steve felt his cock getting wet, caught between his stomach and the bed, and he ground down into the mattress, desperate for relief. Bucky mouthed at his hole, the touch impossibly soft and hot and wet, and Steve felt another wet spot growing underneath him too -- it was nearly painful, but he rocked his hips against the mattress. Bucky finally showed mercy, driving his tongue into Steve in synch with Steve's rhythm and Steve shoved himself against Bucky, feeling his body start to open, and gasped and tried to remember not to rip through the mattress cover. Bucky caught at one hip and moved with Steve so there was no relief from the stimulation, as Steve's eyes shut and his body released itself without anything from him, pleasure rolling over him in warm waves, gasping like someone pulled from deep water.

When he opened his eyes his cock was throbbing lightly and the room was too bright and Bucky was speaking by Steve's ear again, his voice too loud and anxious, "I'm just gonna finger you, Steve, get you ready, before -- I put it all in."

"Sounds like a plan," Steve murmured, and Bucky said, "With my left hand, I mean. This time."

That got Steve's eyes open at least partway and frowned, remembering to ask something that had slipped by earlier, under the anxiety of asking and the relief of the answer. "What about the -- scales, no -- plates on it?" He raised one hand, gesturing vaguely. "Won't the lube, you know, gum up the works?"

He felt rather than heard Bucky's laugh, the exhaled air warm against his cheek. "No, the way it's designed -- they overlap inside, and it makes a kind of seal, if I get in the water, or if....I was somewhere really dusty, with a lot of grit in the air. Or if there was a lot of blood," he added, his voice quiet and nearly expressionless.

Bucky was kneeling next to him, the metal palm spread flat on Steve's back, and Steve turned his head and saw Bucky looking down at him. He held Bucky's gaze a moment, feeling all the way back now, and then said "Okay," speaking as softly as Bucky had, trying to put as much love and acceptance into the word as possible, make the tone of his voice express the feelings he'd never be able to put into words -- _I love you_ and _I don't care what they made you do, no matter what it was, because it wasn't you_ and _they could never make me think less of you, not love you, no matter what they did, not ever._ He must have succeeded a little, because Bucky smiled at him and repeated "Okay." He kissed his way down Steve's back to the base of his spine, pushing his legs open again. Steve tried to get a dry patch of the sheet under himself and heard Bucky flip open the cap on the bottle of lube. He sighed and relaxed into the mattress, feeling Bucky's metal fingers, slick and almost not-cool, on his ass, on his thigh, then sinking in -- it felt as if he'd put in two, and Steve shuddered with pleasure at the feeling of the slick lube on the sleekness of the metal, which registered as much cooler inside him than on his skin, but not unpleasant. He was already loose and wet enough that Bucky's fingers slid easily in and out, feeling not that different from his other hand, and Steve shoved his body back impatiently. "Come on, come _on...."_

"You are so _pushy,"_ Bucky muttered, ignoring Steve's demand and steadily working him open. Steve was used to Bucky lying alongside him, half on him, when they did this, kissing and biting at Steve's neck, rolling almost onto his side so he could slide his left hand up under Steve's stomach and chest to his right shoulder, holding him tight and pulling him back against Bucky, while Bucky's right hand moved in Steve and Steve braced himself against the bed and pressed back against Bucky hard in the same rhythm. Or Bucky pushing Steve on his back, half-lying next to him, propped on his left hand or elbow and fingering Steve with his right hand, their eyes locked, until Steve craned upwards for a kiss. Not feeling anything but Bucky's hand was strange, edging into unpleasant -- Steve felt nearly suspended in space somehow, though he knew he was spread-eagled on the bed, wide open. He had a momentary vision of the Winter Soldier behind him, in the cruel mask and wide obscuring goggles, and glanced back to make sure it was Bucky. From what he saw Bucky was using three fingers now, starting to go in deep, and he mistook Steve's look for impatience, saying softly "Wait -- just wait." The metal had warmed up enough in Steve's body so the difference was no longer as distinct, but that made the small shifting edges stand out against the flat smoothness. Bucky was going slow enough Steve wanted to writhe, but held back, unsure what might happen if he did -- what the equivalent of a fingernail scrape or prod from a knuckle might be. He tried not to hold his breath, to not resist Bucky's fingers or move with them, to let his body be opened further and further.

"Steve" -- Bucky's voice was quiet but the only other sound was both of them breathing deep and hard, so Steve nearly startled -- "you want more? Are you sure?"

"Yes," Steve said, "God, yes, please -- " Bucky swallowed so hard Steve heard it, then did _something_ with his hand -- it was all of his fingers, except his thumb, but not a flat plane (later Bucky showed Steve how his second and third fingers had overlapped the first and fifth, and Steve's mouth had gone dry with the desire to _see_ that, somehow). Steve felt a thick blunt tip, widening to what must have been a second knuckle as Bucky inched into him, and he breathed out into the familiar stretch and burn, feeling it turn hot and tight. "Yes -- oh yeah, yeah, that's good," he said, and then felt a chill wetness that could only be Bucky _pouring_ lube all over his fingers and Steve's ass. " -- Hey, _really?"_ he complained.

"Shut up, Steve," Bucky said, amused and serious at the same time, mixed like the increasing pleasure-pain, and apparently he was heartened enough that Steve wasn't crying out in agony he started moving faster than a snail's pace, so Steve shut up but felt frustrated too -- Bucky drawing his folded-together fingers in and out of Steve didn't feel that different from a plug or a weirdly shaped dildo. When he gently twisted and curved his fingers, almost painstaking, so Steve felt sparks going off inside him, he did his best not to move, but wanted more, more of that sharp edge he could feel buried inside him, the one it seemed he'd been chasing all his life. He bit down on his lip hard, but his breathing was getting out of control. There was no give to the metal, but the slick surface (plus half the damn bottle of lube, it felt like) slipped in easily, the hard pressure foreign but lighting up Steve's spine like a Christmas tree. He forced himself to lie still, not contract around the metal -- God knew what might happen.

"Steve," Bucky said low, a warning, "Steve -- " "Yeah," he said, "it's okay, keep going, God, _yes -- "_ He was panting and felt sweat prickling at his hairline. "Do it, Buck, do it, _God."_ Bucky breathed deep as if he was the one taking his own hand and pushed into Steve up to the knuckles, Steve could feel them up to and then _under_ the ring of flesh, chill and slick with the lube Bucky kept slathering himself with. Bucky curled his fingers and Steve moaned, feeling the hand taking up more room, the pressure building, not painful, not bad, "it doesn't hurt," he gasped, "it doesn't." He took a chance and tensed his muscles, wanting to push back even a fraction of an inch to meet Bucky's hand, but Bucky felt it immediately and said "No!" sharply. "Dammit, Steve, _don't move._ For once in your life." _I spent so much of my life not moving,_ Steve wanted to say, _hell, I was_ frozen, but somehow he couldn't form the words and lay flat, obedient and pliant, while Bucky edged his hand back and forth. "Does it hurt?" he demanded in the same sharp tone, and Steve said, feeling drugged, "No. No. Kinda burns, but....no." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bucky carefully leaning forward, eyes fixed on what he could see of Steve's face, tracking the slightest reaction. "Does it?" "I can do it," Steve mumbled, "I can take it, I can...." Sweat was running down his face. "I know you can," Bucky said, "I know, Steve. But does it hurt?" Steve kept his eyes open so Bucky could see him, keep checking on him, and felt tears trickling out of them, so strange he smiled. "No, Buck....no." He breathed carefully through his open mouth. "Only you," Bucky muttered, _"only_ you could get fisted and look like a goddamn saint. Okay."

He worked his hand in further and Steve realized his knuckles had gone past Steve's rim, it was all smooth and sliding now and he felt something deep inside himself relax, and the tightness around Bucky's hand eased as that _something_ released, expanded, filling Steve all the way up, pushing his lungs open. He took deep gasps like a swimmer at the surface. "There you go," Bucky murmured, keeping his hand moving, "that's it, there, that's it, sweetheart, you got it, that's it, Steve," and endearments were so rare from him Steve wanted to speak but couldn't, couldn't even make a mental note to tease him later. He shifted and realized he was in a puddle of lube, the sheet wet and twisted beneath him. "Steve," Bucky was saying, _"Steve."_

"Don't know if you noticed but I _am_ right here," Steve managed, and Bucky held back his laughter, trying not to move.

"God, you little shit. Are you -- "

"I'm _fine,_ will you quit asking? Please? Come on," Steve whined, sounding younger and petulant to his own ears, "'m _fine,_ Buck, it's good, come on, not madea _glass_ anymore...." Bucky went silent, even his breathing, and then he said, voice strained, "Yeah, I....okay, sorry, Steve. Sorry. Okay." He pulled his hand back out again so the pulsing feeling of fullness ebbed, but Steve felt boneless, profoundly still. Bucky's hand dipped back in, but this time Steve could feel something different, it was thicker, and there was a new burning pressure underneath -- "my thumb, Steve," Bucky said, "I'm in all the way now, that's my thumb, it's all right," and Steve knew he was going as slowly and carefully as before but suddenly he panicked -- the bulk of Bucky's fingers couldn't have been that much bigger but suddenly it was far too much, he wasn't just full, he was being split open, all that slickness couldn't be lube, was it blood? The sensation was bigger than pleasure or pain, white-hot, unbearable. He felt Bucky's knuckles again but this time it was too much, he felt impossibly breached. He felt Bucky's flesh and blood hand on his back, rubbing hard and then squeezing his shoulder, _breathe, Steve, breathe with me, just breathe through it,_ words he'd been saying to Steve all their lives. Steve tried, but he sobbed and then choked. Bucky stopped immediately, leaned far forward and Steve felt his lips brush the side of his throat, then his voice low right next to his ear: "Steve. Steve, I can stop."

Steve forced the panic far down, tried clearing his throat, which felt raw and swollen. "No," he whispered. "No." He thought he felt Bucky sigh, breath passing over his skin, and then he reached up at the back of Steve's neck and smoothed the short-cut hair there -- a very old gesture of comfort and concern, another thing they'd shared all their lives, always. Steve breathed in deep as he could and tried to pass through the fear, not resist it -- this was _Bucky,_ Bucky held his life in his hands, maybe more literally than any time since they'd fought on the helicarrier, and Bucky wouldn't hurt him. Had never hurt him. He felt Bucky's hand going impossibly deeper and kept forcing his own breath in and out -- the pain flared and he clamped his teeth shut not to scream at what he figured later was the widest part of Bucky's hand, before the palm started to curve in again. He could feel his body throbbing around the metal and then there was a slight sucking sound and the most relief Steve had physically felt in his life -- bigger than when he had been reborn out of Howard's sci-fi machine, when he'd drawn a first full breath and realized he felt no pain, no weakness, anywhere in his whole body. The bed was sticky underneath him and he realized he'd come sometime in there, almost as if it didn't matter. He felt Bucky shift his fingers slightly inside, gently working back and forth, intensely aware of every sensation but at the same time floating far outside his body, and groaned. Then Bucky pushed in further, stretching something _else_ deep in and Steve gasped, temporarily blinded by panic again and pleaded "No, no please no -- " "Okay," Bucky said softly, "it's okay Steve, shh," and rubbed Steve's neck and pulled his hand back so lightly Steve didn't feel the pain receding, only the brilliant white-hot molten feeling filling him up again. Part of him felt terrified, aware of how Bucky could rip him apart from the inside, more vulnerable than if he'd been staked out and exposed, but it was drowned by the other overwhelming sensation his body was helplessly interpreting as pleasure. He'd gotten drunk, before the serum, and tried a few reefers (they'd made him cough worse than any other cigarette), but the closest feeling to this was maybe like the quick cheap rush from an old Benzedrine inhaler.

Right as he started to feel the slightest edge of soreness starting to wear its way through the pleasure, Bucky said _(Jesus he must be watching me like a hawk,_ Steve thought) "Steve, Steve, all right, you've had enough? -- No, that's enough, okay, _be still, now,_ all right?" Steve nodded and felt Bucky's right hand reaching under to touch low on his stomach, tenderly massaging, and Steve groaned, feeling himself held between Bucky's two hands. Bucky began to pull his left hand out and Steve felt it leave his body with astonishing ease -- no catches, no pain, only the slight burning flare as Bucky's knuckles passed through and out, barely perceptible now. He heard a delicate rasping sound that he guessed was Bucky wiping his left hand and arm off, and then Bucky's warm flesh fingers probing at his inner thighs, stroking over his hole, checking for blood maybe, or bruising. Steve was so relaxed he didn't flinch. "'M _fine,"_ he croaked, and Bucky snorted. Finally he lay down next to Steve on his left side, his arm held away from both of them, right hand on the back of Steve's neck, his front pressed up against Steve's left side, hot and sweating. "Happy birthday, kiddo," he said, and Steve smiled, and managed "Thanks," but it came out slurred.

Bucky's eyes were worried. "Okay, so -- if you start bleeding or cramping or _anything_ \-- you tell me, _right off,_ all right? Will you do that? Please?"

Steve yawned in his face, he couldn't help it. "Stop mother henning me," he grumbled. "It was _amaaa_ zing," and he laughed as the word got away from him. Bucky watched, still intent, then had to laugh, shaking his head. "You are on Pluto right now, you know that?" He kissed what he could of Steve's mouth. "I'm gonna go clean up -- " Steve's left hand shot out without him and his arm clamped around Bucky, pulling him close and tight. "No," he said clearly.

"Steve, for Chrissakes, I have to _disinfect_ this -- "

"No, no....not yet." Steve suddenly felt on the verge of tears, lip trembling but unashamed of it, which hadn't happened since he was four or five. "Please? Don't go yet."

Bucky smiled but looked sad at the same time, and settled back next to Steve. "All right. I'm not going anywhere. Not til you fall asleep in the next couple seconds, anyway."

"Fuck you," Steve said lazily, and managed to move his head enough that he could kiss Bucky, his left hand moving to cradle the back of his head. Bucky let the kiss go on, deep and slow and sweet, his right hand moving up around to the side of Steve's face, thumb lightly stroking behind his ear. After Bucky finally drew back Steve said "Love you," fighting his eyes slipping shut. He felt Bucky press his forehead against Steve's, Bucky's fingers in his hair, and it was as if he'd been purged with bright pure white light, stripping everything, all the griefs of all the years, down to this moment, when Bucky said "I love you too, Steve," so low Steve barely heard his voice break. He knew he'd fall asleep and Bucky would get up and scour his arm in the shower and when he woke up later the intensity of what he'd felt would be impossible to really remember, but for now, the moment felt endless; maybe, right now, for once in their long lives, they had all the time they'd ever need.

**Author's Note:**

> I did not title this "Fisting the Night Away." You're welcome.


End file.
